Heart over Ambition
by Dare she says it
Summary: Nightmares, duty, uncertainty, and love tug at Kartik in all directions as Gemma Doyle gets closer to finding the Temple, and him, ever closer to her. When the hammer falls, and the hour approaches, can Kartik do what he must in the end? Complete.
1. Uncertainties on Christmas Day

Anything you recongize I do not own. They are property of Libba Bray, author extraordinaire. If there are any mistakes regarding grammar, and spelling and/or if there are any inaccuracies that involve circumstances within the book (e.g. 'Her hair is supposed to be green, and he was standing behind not in front of her, and ETC.') please feel free to inform me.

* * *

I let my fingers graze the space just under her eyes. A new emotion flits there like the momentary flicker of a candle: _Surprise_.

I note then how inappropriate a spectacle we must be; my hand on her face...our faraway gazes locked solidly as though caught, melting in a moment of urgency...need. Whether it is of eachother or of a greater force, I do not know, nor do I shift a muscle.

I would move away...I would board the coach, and I would take her back home...but I find I cannot just yet. Not when sadness fills the eyes I have come to know so well.

"You are the bravest girl I know," I avow, meaning each word truly and completely. It provokes a familiar sense of foreboding to rouse within me, and I am once again assualted by the most frightening nightmare I have had of her:

_Dark hands like a pair of distorted black tarantulas gripping hard and fast over the white of her neck_.

I will have to kill Gemma Doyle.

I quickly take an admonished step away from her, shuddering quietly in disbelief as I allow her a moment's peace to gather herself by the carriage.

When Gemma finally mounts the coach, completely absolved of her tears, I help her in with a wistful:

_"Merry Christmas, Miss Doyle."_

Words are all I have for her.

And when I take her life, in whatever fashion or method I choose, I know that they will not be enough.

* * *

She screams again, her nails clawing hard at my face, my chin, my hair.

I feel a collection veins pulsing strong beneath the severe hold of my fingers. They throb in a failing sense of desperation.

She closes her eyes. Then opens them again.

They resurface the air with the faintest tinge of fear, and something I cannot name.

Her legs kick hard below mine.

But I am a cage and she cannot hope to escape.

And that's when I see the light begin to leave the green of her eyes.

She goes limp.

And I imagine blood in my hands...

Though they are as clean as the moon that hangs, stoic, above me.

* * *

I awake with a start, nearly waking a snoring Ginger whose stable I suddenly find myself in, an absolute mess: hair dishevelled, and sweaty from nightmare.

I quickly brush away the bits of hay thathave managed to cling to my coat, and almost instantly after, I bury my face in my hands, the familiar sting of tears and duty breaking me.

_Can I do what is expected of me in the end?_

The question haunts me like a phantom, and it chases away all the certainty in my heart.

The Rakshanna. My life. Everything I've ever known…should I throw it all away?

All for the sake of a stupid girl?

I sigh, feeling exhaustion weigh me down, though I've slept for nearly six hours.

_Gemma Doyle is not a stupid girl._

And as the first glimmers of sunlightbreak through the open gaps of the stablehouse, I curse myself and her for the sheer injustice of it.


	2. Parting is such sweet sorrow

Thank you so much for the helpful reviews. Due to the fact that I do not own a copy of Rebel Angels, the scenes below will have **a lot of errors** in terms of dialogue (I had to go by what I could remember.) This is also the reason why I couldn't continue scenes and had to cut them. Feel free to post the actual lines, it would prove very helpful. Again I own nothing you recognize. Note that the last part of this chapter is a nightmare of Kartik's and does not actually occur. I just wanted to clarify this, since I know I tend to be confusing. Sorry!

* * *

When I am fully awake, my nose caught yet again amongst the pages of the Odyssey, a clothed, _thankfully breathing_, Gemma Doyle greets me at the door of Ginger's stable. There is a faint echo of a smile ringing hard along the delicate lines of her mouth, and her green eyes fall to the stable floor for a moment before she speaks.

"Thank you, for last night,"

I regard her with what I hope are soulful brown eyes.

"Everyone needs help sometimes."

She takes my response with a weird glint in her eye.

"Except you," She points out tenderly, and I am rendered silent by the complete weight of her words, her respect…for me.

In a vague attempt to hide my rising discomfort, I fish eagerly through my rucksack for a small, ornate blade.

When I hand it to her, fingers outsretched nervously, she appears stunned at my gesture, and I cannot exacly blame her.

"For me?" she croaks, regarding the blade as though it were a delicate little thing.

"Megh Sambra," I reply softly, "The Hindus believe it would protect one from the harmful influence of negative spirits,"

She looks at the blade carefully, and then back at me with those startlingly piercing green eyes.

"I thought you didn't believe in anything but the Rakshanna,"

Her statement somehow makes me flush, and I avert my glance instantly, embarassed, gazing at the stable floor instead as though it were a particularly gorgeous impressionist painting.

"It was Amar's," I explain, swallowing back a hard lump before continuing, "I thought you would need it."

"Thank you," She says again, her tone decidedly pensive.

A question suddenly slithers its way up my throat. "So, I hear you will be attending Miss Worthington's ball tomorrow?"

I want to kill myself, but sadly there are no acorns to be found on the ground.

Gemma seems unfazed. "Yes,"

"What do people exactly do in these balls?"

* * *

_Dancing seemed simple enough_.

This is not the case when one dances with Miss Doyle.

The mere invitation to dance seems to silence her instantly, and for a moment she looks around, appearing slightly afraid...

And then her fingers meet mine in the Christmas morning chill.

I ask her without reservation what I am to do next.

"You are to put your hand on my waist," She says shakily in what strongly resembles a strangled caw, and I gently grip the region above her thigh.

She stiffens almost immediately against my clutch, and with great effort she interjects, "Higher."

I obey, and slide my hand upwards.

"Here?" "Yes."

We shyly begin to mirror eachother's slow footsteps like two wary five-year-olds in a wedding. There is a sense of fear that shines faintly in the green of her eyes.

"It would be much easier if you weren't pulling away," I mean more than what I truly say, and Gemma adopts a slight blush in the pale of her cheeks.

Feeling a little frustrated at our distance, I suddenly yank her closer to me, and she lets out a part-stifled gasp in my chest.

I can feel the tickle of her gold-red hair on my neck, and the thrill of her warm breath, dancing, by the lobe of my ear.

I am intoxicated easily by the scent of her head on my nose. It's as if we're dancing into the air, higher and higher with every spin, there is no sky above, or dirtroad below, and I fear that we may fall back down to earth.

_We do._

Gemma is now a foot away from me, breathing ragged, and I am abruptly aware of where her hands had pushed me.

"I should go," She mutters almost repetantly, and I cannot look at her.

"Don't forget your present," I hear myself saying in a voice ridden with hurt. I want to kick myself at my show of emotion.

Somewhere between the dancing and the talking, rain has descended down upon us. It is thick and heavy with grey.

Gemma and I are still locked to the stable, bound to eachother, and for one beautiful moment, _we kiss_.

* * *

_"I do not even think of you as Indian."_

_"Kartik, don't go...I don't want you to go."_

_"Aren't you going to take my father's cricket?"_

* * *

I wake up to bands of moonlight. They shoot past vessels of purple-blue clouds, and serve as bridges of white for the twinkling stars above.

Emerald blades brush up against my knees, their tips ripe with dew.

White trees loom and pop up in the distance like upturned hands, and the wind whistles a soft tune against the warm flesh of my ears.

Behind me there is a temple.

Its entrance is marked by a crude embellishment of skulls and crossbones.

_The Rakshanna_.

I look around again at the beauty that surrounds me.

This must be the Realms. And the Rakshanna are now in possession of the magic. Before I can breathe a sigh of relief, there is a curious titter over my shoulder. I turn around.

The silhoutte of two girls greets the growing shock in my eyes.

They are seated by the exposed roots of a particularly large white tree, one braiding the hair of the other.

A band of moonlight shines over them as if by command, and I stifle a cry.

It is Miss Cross, and Gemma. But in some horrible form I do not know.

It is Gemma that stands and ambles closer. Miss Cross merely laughs. A high cold laugh that snakes its way down the column of my spine.

"Gemma?" I utter, sounding braver than I feel.

It is then that I register the true extent, _the true horror_ of Gemma's corruption.

There is no green in her eyes, only a terrible mass of grey-white, with a frightening, _roving_pinprick of black.

Her red mane of hair hangs lank against her bony shoulders, and blue veins adorn her body like a tattoo of meandering vines.

Her nails appear pointed as she stretches her arms out to me in what seems like a murderous hug.

I take a frightened step back, and fall.

"Look at what you have done to me Kartik... do I appear beautiful?" She hisses, and I feel her approaching quickly.

I try to move, but I am too overcome.

Her face appears above me, and the hard beauty is gone.

"How could you Kartik? Do you feel proud now?" Gemma asks of me harshly through sharp, tiny teeth,

_"I will never rest until I kill you with the same brutality."_


	3. Water, gift, and task

Due to boredom, I have managed to complete the third chapter of this fic in just one night. Sad, I know, but I was sentenced to my room by my mother this morning thanks to a rather nasty headcold (it's a miracle I can operate this keyboard), and aside from cleaning under my bed, and re-reading my set of Harry Potter books, **there was literally nothing left to do.**

Regarding this chapter, I would like to say that "Mr. Avery" is of my concoction, and that he is not an actual character in the book. I intended him to be the pub-owner (does Kartik sleep somewhere behind a pub? Correct me on this.)

I own nothing you recognize. And I wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

* * *

"Mr. Kartik! Mr. Kartik! Good heavens are you alright?"

"Gemma don't! I swear-I had no choice! I had to! I had-"

"Mr. Kartik!"

My eyelids flutter open shakily at the sound of Mr. Avery's worried voice.

His great watery eyes hover instantly over the planes of my dark face, and I vaguely register the panicked movement of his fat fingers on my forehead as they brush away the great build-up of sweat at the curve of my brow.

"Mr. Avery, it's quite alright really, thank you for your concern," I mumble quickly, past the point of epic embarassment as I gently shoo his fussing hands away, and sit myself up on the bed.

"You gave me right good scare there, Mr. Kartik," Mr. Avery huffed, fetching me an empty water glass from the bar, and clutching at his heart gravely for emphasis. "I thought the devil himself had come to claim you,"

"Just a nasty dream is all," I try to give a wide smile at his kindness, but my mouth merely wobbles at the impossible effort.

"Here," Mr. Avery hands me a tall glass of water, and I take it gladly, finally managing to smile,

"A glass of water ought to do the trick." He winks.

I gulp the cold water down fast. I feel that I will need more than a glass of water to stop this perpetual onslaught of nightmares.

I don't tell Mr. Avery that though.

* * *

After a pacifying series of Mr. Avery's best icewaters, I am left quite alone in my room, behind the bead curtain, to slowly savour the sweet beginnings of a massive headache.

A new, decidedly unexpected presence interrupts my moment of solitary agony however, and I am now alarmed to see Emily, one of the Doyle's maids, all worried and fitful by the foot of my bed.

"Oh, Mr. Kartik, I heard of your earlier incident…I do hope I didn't come at a bad time," She begins timidly, biting hard at her bottom lip. "Miss Doyle gave me your present…and I-I, I just wanted to give you yours," For some reason this adds to my shock.

"My present, you say?" I mutter loudly in a tone anticipating a cruel joke.

"Yes," Emily smiles in shy pride over her little surprise, and she gladly hands me a small parcel wrapped in bright, patterned paper.

I am baffled.

"I do not know what to say…" I gently finger the vivid parcel, and in response to Emily's wide, expectant eyes, I quickly tear it open.

It is a cricket ball.

Suddenly I am a mess.

Emily is simply horrified.

"Oh, Mr. Kartik, I am terribly sorry!" She cries, trembling hands moving to cup her open mouth, "I didn't know-I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry my gift is so horrible that you cry over it!"

Her face is a flesh-coloured blur to me, and my gaze burns painfully with the overwhelming appearance of tears.

"It is nothing, Emily. Please," I let my fingers fold over hers firmly as a sign of assurance. She gasps at my forwardness.

"I love the gift." I say, and for a while, none of us speaks. There is a painful lump in my throat that threatens to bulge through my neck, and my nose is running so abysmally, I fear it may produce a river down my shirt.

A few solemn minutes pass, and then Emily finally stands up from her place on my bed. With a regretful sigh, she moves towards the exit to leave.

"Belated Merry Christmas, Mr. Kartik," She says softly by the bead curtain, and I feel like a git for behaving so abominably.

"Thank you for the gift Emily. Belated Christmas to you too."

Emily is about to turn on her heels, when she hesitates again…

Shelooks over her shoulder and flashes me a kind of sad smile.

"It's her isn't it, Mr. Kartik?"

I stare at her through burning eyes. "Who?"

"Miss Doyle. I think she's fond of you too."

And with that, she tearfully makes her way out of the string of beads, moaning to herself as she blindly gropes for the pub exit.

I let myself fall flat on my bed.

_I do love the gift._

I just wish it hadn't reminded me too much of Gemma Doyle.

* * *

I do not know where I am again.

My last recollections involve faint, yet vivid snatches of Emily's terrible sobbing over me, and Mr. Avery's great harrumphs at my nightly attacks from the devil.

I look up, and my hand moves quickly to shield the blinding sunlight that bathes everything in view in a creamy sort of yellow.

It is rather warm, and I notice, with a silent uttering of a swear word, that I have on too many black garments. I work quickly to discard my black cloak, and note vaguely the rich smell of both curry and saffron that hangs thick in the suffocatingly hot air.

Blue, sparkling rivers beautifully line the green horizon, and my vision stops short at a group of fat mountains looming far into the distance, veiled eerily by a spray of silver mist. A hand claps my shoulder casually and I give a loud cry, swinging my arm around in order to stare at the laughing figure behind me.

My eyes widen greatly in shock.

"Brother?" I stammer the word, and the man nods good-naturedly, still laughing at my apparent discomfort. I note his eyes, golden-brown like mine, and his full lips, and lopsided smile. "How…?"

"Kartik you have grown," He says amiably as he leads us both past a section of wild vegetation and sits us near the rim of a very blue river.

"I don't understand," I repeat weakly when we are both comfortably seated, "What is happening? Am I dreaming again?"

"You most certainly are. But this is not just any dream," Amar explains with the lightest hint of a grave smile, "I am visiting you from the other side. To complete a soul's task."

_A soul's task._

I turn my cryptic gaze back over to the hot horizon and a sudden realization hits me.

"India," Amar continues, minding the awe in my face, "Do you remember it? I don't suppose you do…but I chose to take you here," He smiles, _again_, and the constant sight of it is beginning to break my heart.

"What is it that you need to do?" I ask softly, and he gives a great and quiet sigh.

"There's something I feel I need to tell you…"

I don't say anything.

"During the last months of my life, I was given the task to retrieve vital information about the Order, and the location of the Temple through a woman named Mary Dowd. In order to gain both her friendship and trust, the Rakshanna instructed me to offer her protection from a dangerous evil named Circe. In truth the Rakshanna did not care whether the thing claimed Miss Dowd or not. I fed her lies of how she had to find a way to seal the magic to the Eastern Star in order to keep it safe from Circe. I knew that all reign of the magic in the realms would be given to the Rakshanna if Miss Dowd succeeded in following my instructions. And at first I did not care. But slowly…" Amar seemed unable to speak, and I was only comprehending very little of what he had said.

"Remember when I told you? That I wanted to live an idle life in India, marry and have seven children one day…" Amar turned away with a weak chuckle. "I was beginning to think that Miss Dowd would be the perfect wife for that dream..."

I could scarcely believe what Amar was saying. I closed my eyes hard and dipped my head sadly into a stoop.

"The Rakshanna knew nothing of my growing feelings for her. Until I had to make a choice. The Rakshanna ordered me to provide protection, yes…but only to the extent where my safety was in tact. When that spirit threatened to harm her, I knew I couldn't leave her…even if she didn't feel the same…even if…"

I shook my head.

"You could've been counted amongst the highest ranks of the Rakshanna," I sputtered bitterly, "You chose to throw that all away."

Amar made to defend himself but I wouldn't let him. I was too angry.

"I would still have a brother, some semblance of a family had you not done what you did!" I interjected furiously, my voice cracking dangerously with the onset of tears, and Amar's wise, and pleasant face crumbled into a wistful smile.

"Even you have the ability to fall in love."

I gape up at him, incredulous.

"What are you talking about?"

"Miss Gemma Doyle," He says this simply, and my eyes flash with angry sparks at the absurdity of this suggestion.

"I don't love Miss Doyle, don't delude yourself," I say this in a mad rush, without flinching, and I end up surprising myself considerably. _Do I not love Gemma?_

"You may not truly love her now, but you know you are well on your way to that path."

I want to tell him that he is wrong, that he is spitting out absolute nonsense... but I am at fault...

And the lies are caught on my throat.

* * *

_"I can't control my destiny, I trust my soul, my only goal is just to be. There's only now, there's only here. **Give in to love or live in fear.** No other path, no other way. No day but today." -Anonymous._


	4. NOTICE

**Against my will**, my mother is having me and my two brothers (_yes, unnecessary personal information, sorry_) shipped to California for the rest of my Winter Break. I will have absolutely no access to Internet and/or Computers. So (with the limited time I have left) I shall now address the Reviews I've recieved from Chapter 3 (my most, if you will, controversial chapter yet.) 

I apologize **FIRSTLY** (if any of you were at all uncomfortable) for Kartik's ahem overt show of emotion during the "Emily" scene. I'm afraid I've put a bit too much of myself into Kartik's character ...and he was originally supposed to be furious at Emily not sad...well a bit of both, _but more furious_.

Also, **Maddycat2000**'s comment of how Emily knew of Kartik's staying at the pub (_check the reviews page_) is a very **_intelligent_** one, and I forgot to assess this very important factor when "writing" the chapter. I am truly sorry for the mix-up, and I don't see how I can rectify the chapter aside from rewriting it all over ..and to be honest, I don't think I'll be able to, due to lack of time (School is coming up, to my great chagrin).

And **Lily** (bless her) provided the author of the quote I had used at the very end of the chapter: _Jonathon Larson_.

Thank you all for being so patient with my mistakes, and for the constructive criticism. Regarding updates, I am unsure of when the next chapter will be up (I shall have to nick my friend's copy of Rebel Angels...somehow...I am of course joking, by 'nick' I mean 'beg shamelessly for'.) Til then, you'll probably see me reviewing some of your guys' works! (during weekends, of course.) grins

**I hope you've all had a Merry Christmas, and best wishes to the upcoming year!**


	5. The Deciding Hour

I am sorry for the lack of updates! Despite the doubts I've reserved for this chapter, I've decided to post it anyway due to the fact that I probably won't be able to update in a while (tests, and quizzes. Arg.) Nothing much happens in this chapter, and I am very sorry for that (mind you this is my longest chapter, 2000 plus words, so read this only if you can afford the time, and **the patience**.) I do hope that everyone has a good week! (And no, Kartik is not in love Pippa.)

* * *

The colourful India before me shifts... the silver-blue mountains, pearl-coloured rivers, and syrupy jade trees suddenly sliding and bluring, losing their true shape, as Amar, screaming, struggles desperately to find me in the flurried movement. His fingers graze slightly at my shoulder, and I look up, eager to find my sweating hands in his. My touch grasps the thin air. Cursing, I force my idle legs up from the river, but Amar is a swirling, melting spectacle of flesh, and my eyes can no longer find him in the raging sea of teal and willow.

"Amar!" It seems that my scream swirls around me, _into me_. Colour blinds my eyes, until I fall away into incredibly wintry hues of ice and gray, tiny clouds riding the flow of my breath as I struggle to gather myself up with the support of both legs. The grass is white and brittle beneath my feet, the sky a silver pool. There is no one here but the distant presence of a man hooded in a most regal purple, his back to me, a hood concealing his head. I find that I am with no weapon, and I step back, my voice an icy threat in the air.

"Who are you, and where is my brother?"

"Oh," He says, his voice feigning very little interest. "So sorry to have kept your reunion short, but I thought a meeting with me would better interest you."

Anger mingles with the blood in my veins.

"Who are you?"

The man obliges my question with a slow, dramatic turn, and with delicate care, he yanks the point of his hood down, revealing his face. I nearly scream.

"You-"

"I am you, Kartik."

I do not know whether to object or simply stammer helplessly in awe. He possesses my forest of dark curls, my strong, hard nose, my unusually long lashes, and my well-rounded lips. I note that he is a a good three inches taller than me, making him almost gargantuan, and that there are circles that faintly mark the spaces around his gold-chestnut brown eyes. I notice that the mark of the Rakshanna is emblazoned crudely at his lapel.

"Do not fear me Kartik. We are almost one and the same," He speaks almost boredly, "Or shall I say, I am so much more than you are at present moment."

I maintain my stunned silence as he walks ever closer towards my direction, his face a mask of contemptous amusement as he surveys my slightly trembling legs, and sweating palms.

With a force I cannot even begin to comprehend, he strikes me hard and quick at the face. Blood spurts from within the walls of my mouth, and I wobble uneasily to my side, my hand at the side of my jaw instantly to calmly assess the pain. A sneer curls the sides of his full lips.

"Weak." A glare escapes the brown of my eyes, and the sneer on his face grows even broader.

"It is truly sad, Kartik. The depth at which you've _fallen._ And all because of a _detestable_, little girl…" My stomach roils suddenly with all the writhing fury of a thousand snakes, but I find I cannot speak, my lip shedding blood so profusely.

"Well, what is it? Were you going to defend her honour? Do spare me your avowal of love, brother...for it is just as inept and trivial as you are. But fear not that can be changed." He lowers himself to his knees in order to properly stare at me with suddenly hungry eyes.

"She is weak, Kartik. _Not like us._ She does not care for you as you think she does…" My other self gives a sudden, but rather deliberate look over his shoulder. Another figure appears there...a woman.

She is dressed in a gentle, quiescent white, with red tressess creating cascades of illuminating gold down her chest. Her hands are beautifully placid, set against her sides. But the eyes…

They are not peaceful, or tender, or soothing…they are sagacious, and headstrong.

It is none other than a nineteen-year-old Gemma Doyle, Queen to the realms, the Most High.

"Once she seals the magic, you are no more to her. The sorrow that binds you both will be forfeited And you are alone, abandoned by the one you foolishly trusted, and cast off, with no possibility of forgiveness, by those you so wrongfully betrayed." The Gemma Doyle behind him gives a wise smile, before dispersing like a golden scatter of pollen in the freezing wind.

"She wants to take the power from us, Kartik! Don't let her."

* * *

"Kartik!"

Someone is shaking me tersely by the shoulders. I open my eyes tiredly, half-expecting to see a mollifying Mr. Avery, ready with a glass of water, but I spot Amar, positively worried to death over my unmoving body.

"Brother!" I gasp in relief, the hot, spicy air of India deliciously filling my lungs. I am all questions after I describe to Amar what I saw—though certainly not what I've heard.

"I could sense them coming," Amar tells me gravely after my long, winded explanation, "They are fallen Rakshanna. They belong to the generation that have yet to witness the beauty and the power of the realms, such as you and I. Once dying, they are completely enraptured by the realms, and refuse to cross over. They are bidding their time in the Winterlands, waiting for the time when the power is finally at The Rakshanna's disposal. They know Kartik, and they will use their trickery to gain what they want…"

Little makes sense to me at the moment, and with a sad smile, I note Amar's standing up and moving to go.

"Think of what I have said little brother. I am very sorry to say that my time here is spent."

* * *

I am awakened from my dream by a small, flickering light hovering just above my eyes.

My right hand, cold and dripping with sweat, flies immediately over my half-opened gaze. Orange filters past my fingers as I struggle to steady myself up with an elbow.

"Wake up, novitiate," I blink, recognizing the curt voice immediately with a tight squeeze to my chest.

"Brother Fowlson, I am sorry,"

Throwing back my covers, I stand quickly, almost tripping on a loose floorboard in my haste. Fowlson, his bottom lip curling with satisfaction at my evident show of fear, gestures his candle-holder to the exit of the pub. I follow him with all the dull enthusiasm of a feline about to be rinsed, knee-deep in a tub of suddy water.

Amar is an indelible matter in my mind as me and a sneering Fowlson finally reach the back of Mr. Avery's pub. He gives his short nub of a candle a rather quick, and noncomittal blow, and the flickering flame goes out fast, turning into a faint whisp of smoke in the wintry air. I gulp.

"What is your progress with the Doyle girl?" Fowlson queries in a threat, and I nearly stammer my reply.

"It is…That is, Miss Doyle has yet to locate the temple, but has found a rather promising source of information-"

"What source?"

"A, a former member of the Order," I stutter fearfully against my will, surprised that I don't keel and fall over with all the diginity of a schoolgirl. Fowlson regards me momentarily through narrow slits of eyes…and then his scarred face breaks into a splitting smile, a slow, icy sneer that shakes hard at the core of my foundation.

"It seems that the pair of you are costing The Rakshanna a bit too much time," My mind scrambles wildly for an answer, something that can buy both Gemma and I some needed time, but my lips mouth soundlessly, and absolutely no words come out.

"There are no excuses that will save you now, novitiate," And with this, Fowlson quickly slips his strong, meaty fingers over my unsuspecting elbow, and grips hard. I almost curse out loud at the sudden, searing pain. The lout has the strength of all God. "A terrible pity. I suppose weakness and a heart do run in your family," The look Fowlson offers me with is positively murderous. It pushes all the air out of my lungs, and I can barely breath. "Your mission is officially terminated, novitiate. And since it seems that your girlfriend too is uncapable of performing simple tasks, we, The Rakshanna, will have to do it for her,"

"What do you mean?" I wheeze fiercely, a sudden, uncharacteristically strong anger ripping hard at my throat,

"In time, novitiate. For now, do take this as a token of my appreciation for all your hard work," And before I can shift to evade his oncoming blow, Fowlson's free hand connects solidly with my jaw, and I fall instantly to the ground, the world a garish shade of black.

* * *

A spray of brunette tresses lie, catching the gold of the setting sun across my chest.

Small hands like delicate, sweet-smelling flowers, gently caress the hard frames of my face…their pale, whimsical fingers twisting themselves deep into the riotous curls of my hair.

The intoxicating scent of meadowsweet floods my skin, and kisses, soft and tender, line the column of my bare neck.

I look up, and a pair of gorgeous plum-coloured eyes look back at me, a twisted adoration clouding the spaces between the long lashes.

"Do you pine for me?" She asks. Her voice is a lovely tinkling laughter against at my ears, and I do not know whether to nod in vehemence, or smother her exquisite, porcelain face in earnest kisses. She takes a coy finger to the bridge of my nose, and with a smile worthy of a thousand suns, strokes tenderly at my skin. "Do me a favor won't you? It is only a small thing…" I am ready to surrender my life to this great beauty.

"Tell Gemma-"

_"Gemma?"_ My mouth moves at its own accord, and suddenly the radiance that surrounds both me and the girl is no longer magical, but dizzying.

"Yes, if you could- what's wrong?"

My eyes are caught, inevitably, at the rougish sight of her short, sharp teeth, but the girl smiles again...and the crooked fangs are gone.

"What is happening?" I ask her this boldly, and her pretty violet eyes are practically swimming with tears.

"Shush, no questions, you adore me remember?" A part of me is most eager to say yes, but a more significant part of me feels as if it's being pulled away, pulled through flaps of black…pulled back to a choir of sounds that consist of dripping candles, and angry superiors.

_"Wake up, novitiate!"_ My brow wrinkles in stark confusion.

"No, please! You have to tell Gemma not to seal the-"

_"Get up!"_

"You pine for me, don't leave me!"

_"Novitiate!"_

* * *

My waking came in the form of a wild kick to the gut. I wince immediately at the considerable bit of agony, and with a feeble groan, roll over to my aching side, coughing instantly at the chill that seizes my throat like a hand.

"I almost thought you for dead. Quick, get up."

I do not know who is speaking, but I willingly obey the person's curt words, sitting up at once only to be seized roughly by the shoulders.

By the little light given by the flickering wall-torches, I can make out the face of a man just a few years my senior.

"Guess whose coming?"

I need not guess the answer to the question, and my throat leadens.

The man levels his eyes, a serpent jade colour, and locks them coldly with mine.

"You are still much use to us. She trusts you. And a little persuasion on your part may sway her to do our bidding," The man senses my slight reluctance, and his eyes give off a malicious glint in the darkness. "Unless of course you are unwilling to redeem yourself, Kartik, brother of Amar."

It occurs to me then, huddled quietly on the stone floor, that the question is not whether I am willing to redeem myself or not..._it is to who_, and the consequences that will happen should I decide to make the wrong choice.


	6. Escape, with a dash of contrition

Thank you so much to all you for your **gracious**, and **merciful** reviews. I do hope you excuse the several inaccuracies in this chapter (I have yet to get my hand on a borrowed copy of 'Rebel Angels.') I also hope that you've enjoyed your weekend, and will enjoy the week to come!

* * *

This night seems to be one of the _longest_ in my life, I decide, as I sit, weary, on tetherhooks, inside what appears to be a small, desolate cell with poor lighting, and foul, dripping walls.

I dare not rest my head on anything lest the delicious pull of sleep seizes me, and I note, with an ironic smile, that before my legs, lies a trodden sheet of bronze, bearing a crusty, half-eaten loaf of bread, and a small jug of water.

I turn the bread over with one distasteful finger, hunger no longer a matter of importance as I await Gemma's arrival and mull over the necessary details of my next task: to fully convince the stubborn, and headstrong Gemma Doyle that the suspicious woman, Miss McCleethy, is, in fact, a trusted ally, and that Fowlson, the charming fellow, does not truly wish to sop her up for tomorrow's evening tea.

Quite right. Success is indeed on the horizon.

I groan outloud at my great disfortune, listening afterwards, with grim interest, at my expressed consternation resounding hard and loud against the cold, slippery stone walls.

As the recurring echoes die and fade irreversibly into a fierce, stony silence, I can slowly make out the slight rustling of robes—the warning sound of hurried feet.

There is only but a fleeting whisper of absolute quiet, until the door to my cell is wrenched open, the latch creaking with a shrill, unsettling cry. Two shadowy figures break through the cloudy haze of dust and light like a pair of fractures, and I have to screen my eyes at the sudden, piercing radiance that makes my eyes water.

Kicking aside my bronze platter, one of the men seizes me by the scruff of my neck. Through narrow eyes, I note their sinister masks.

To my surprise, it is the last thing I note with my eyes, for the next instant all light, and all color disappears as a dark, chafing material is closed tightly over my face.

There is a fair bit of walking after said assault, and on more than one or two occasions, I cannot stop myself from stumbling awkwardly at the uneven stone flooring, nearly dragging the two masked escorts down with me.

Presently, we pause.

There is a faint scraping of locks, and hinges, and the two men happily resume their unrelenting pull on my arms, tossing me down against the cold, stone floor with such gargantuan force, I am surprised that my bones do not spontaneously shatter into pieces at the contact.

Testy fingers begin to prod maliciously at my face, and with a stifled anger, I sit there, attempting to ease their task with the blindfold by quickly angling my head.

"Kartik!" Gemma's voice is a sweet relief, and she cannot help but eye me, completely bewildered. The two escorts move to leave, and as the door closes behind them with an emphathic _'click'_ I do not restrain myself.

"Gemma," I call out to her quickly, blinking my eyes at the new darkness, and I find her sitting anxiously behind me, her face assuming the look of just having been gagged and poisoned. "What happened to you?"

Gemma is not at all impressed by my concern.

"I would very much like to ask you the same question," She says frostily for my benefit, her eyes narrowing at my weary own, "Did they capture you too?"

"Capture? ...look, are you alright?" I ask, eager to change the subject, "I have water." Gemma gazes with feeble longing at the small jug, and I offer it to her, watching her worriedly as she sips at the opening. How do I begin to convince her?

"Gemma," I manage, but before I can utter another word, Gemma fixes me with those startlingly green eyes.

"Kartik…I…I am so very sorry about what I said the other day. I didn't mean anything by it."

Her face looks so genuine, so true—so free of momentary embarrassment, and awkwardness that I do not doubt her apology in the least.

"It is forgotten," I say, holding her repentant gaze like time, hoping to assure her, but from the way her eyes fall briefly to the floor, I know that she is not convinced.

"Kartik," She begins again, her tone completely changed, all business—all rushed and conspiratorial, "I was right about Miss McCleethy."

"Gemma, you must not fear her, she is here to help you, this much Fowlson has informed me,"

"Well then, you'll be awfully glad to know that it was Fowlson who took a poisoned rag and shoved it, easy as you please, against my mouth!"

"You must admit, you are not exactly the most agreeable person to work with," I point out, to Gemma's open-mouthed shock, "Nor are you easy to convince." Gemma positively scowls at this. It is most unbecoming on her sensible face, but somehow it makes my heart glow.

"That does not constitute the use of sedatives!" She fumes, hands folded over her forehead in a great effort to gather herself. "We've wasted enough time. Miss McCleethy is Circe, and I've no question about it. And if she is working with Fowlson, then…"

"I trust the Rakshanna." I mutter quickly, as Gemma knew I would from the quiet look on her face, and I do not know whether my words are a confident parry, or a weak ploy to convince myself.

"I see..." Gemma appears disappointed with what my answer undoubtedly reveals, clouds passing over the jade of her eyes as she realizes with a slight wince that she cannot hope to convince me.

"This is a waste of time," A voice echoes, sharp and ringing, behind me, and the floor is swathed in a deep green material. It is the McCleethy woman, her delicate mouth curved ominously at the edges; disdainful eyes scowling beneath the lids.

It is my cue, and I retreat from Gemma's side, my task in persuading her a decided failure. I walk past the door in which I had entered to see a sneering Fowlson there, prepared to either flay me or spare me. I do not know which, and with good judgment, do not dare ask. He seems too engrossed at the hopeless struggle that is Miss McCleethy and Gemma to even note my sorry presence.

Inside the small room, I can make out Gemma's indignant voice, reverberating off the damp walls with both audacity and defiance. I cannot help but admire her fiercely for it, for even against Fowlson, the little defiance I can muster would surely fit inside one iota.

"Come, novitiate," Fowlson suddenly demands of me, and I am once again dragged into the loathsome little room.

It is Gemma, green eyes burning with all the fire of a million embers. She advances fast towards me, heels positively clacking against the cold, stone floor.

"What was your true task?" The accusatory glow of her eyes hits me like so many daggers.

"I was to help you find the Temple," I croak, shrinking miserably under her admonishing glare. Gemma is not satisfied.

"Your true task."

Dear Lord, _she knows._ She knows, and she is not happy with me. I have betrayed her in only one of the most horrible, most exceptionally wicked ways to betray a dear friend, and she shan't ever forgive me for it.

Fowlson notices me falter.

"Becareful, brother," And there's the temptation again, lying ever so low, simmering beneath the mad rush of my veins.

"That was my only task." I murmur softly, without so much as a player's conviction, and Gemma is merciless.

"Liar," She spits out, and it reaches my ears in all the harsh, verbal forms of _'Scoundrel'_ and _'Coward.'_

I dare to cast her a brief, despairing look, but the dark expression on her face burns me, and I avert my glance just as quickly.

"Let us go," She says determinedly, as though now that I have deceived her, even cooperating with the Rakshanna is a pleasurable endurance.

Miss McCleethy gives a slight, perfunctory nod at this, and moves purposefully to take Gemma's right arm. She is only too happy, to tuck it gently beneath her own. Fowlson too appears, to my wide-eyed horror, just a tiny step away from breaking into song.

From behind me, I discern Jackson, and a dozen or so of the lower Rakshanna flock like moths to a flame towards this latest, most agreeable development, lights aglow within their eyes.

I feel almost out of place, still stung by Gemma's furious reaction, when all of a sudden the dear girl gives a dizzying moan worthy of a forced applause. She falls dramatically to her feet, her fingers trying to catch hold of something strapped smartly to her ankles, something sharp—The Megh Sembara.

"For Pity's sake!" Miss McCleethy is all sharp eyes, and dour frowns again, kicking at Gemma's side.

"Fetch the salts!" Fowlson barks impatiently at the perplexed minions that surround him, and disorder and chaos erupts through the narrow, stone halls in dramatic echoes of _'Quickly!' 'We are so close!'_

I struggle against the busy throng with readily jabbing elbows, stopping short at Gemma's crumpled figure. I hook my arm through hers in uncertainty, and from the way I raise her up to her feet with remarkable ease, I can tell that she is still very much awake.

"She is only feigning it!" Miss McCleethy cries at Fowlson, almost pouting in her dismay, and before Jackson can even so much as shove a crucible of salt beneath Gemma's nose, Gemma pushes me with all the virile strength of an ox, and thrusts the Megh Sembara viciously at their faces.

My back hits the wall with a tremendous thud, and I am shocked that I do not slide, dead and no longer moving, against its slick, wet surface.

"You cannot hope to escape, Miss Doyle," Fowlson implies this with a roguish, triumphant smile, "You do not the way out."

Gemma appears hesitant, unsure, and I know that Fowlson is disastrously correct in his assessment. With a faint show of vulnerability, Gemma desperately seeks my weary eyes in the darkness...

I shoot my glance quickly towards a pair of bolted doors to the left of the long, narrow hall, and Gemma's eyes quickly follow.

Dropping the blade instantly to her side, Gemma seizes my hand boldly, and pulls me hard with her, and like a shot, we are both running listlessly to our only possible chance of escape.

"Gemma! The blade!"

Grasping my barely coherent words, Gemma slips the hilt of the blade under the lock and raises it, breaking the ingeniously fashioned piece of metal apart. The wooden doors fly open like boards to send gusts of London's coldest air whipping about our fearful faces, and both Gemma and I race frantically to the light, Fowlson and Miss McCleethy impossibly hot on our heels.

I lead Gemma far into a vacant alley, whose end leads fast into London's busy streets. I fear I have to leave her.

"Quick, Gemma," I say, almost out of breath, "I have to go back," Gemma's eyes are wide and full of worry, almost pleading with mine.

"You can't go back, Kartik! You can't ever go back." I have never seen Gemma so frightened, and I realize, with a cold stab of terror, that what she says is true. Without waiting for a definite answer, Gemma casually loops her arm in mine, and states, "Come, we are going for a walk."

The two of us work at once to seem very preoccupied and haughty, as though we have several expectant people to see, and a great many places to go. We occasionally avoid the bumping shoulders, and the more occasional stepping feet. I feel ridiculously guilty as Gemma continues to act perfectly pleasant with me, as though I were a friend, and not someone who had just dealt her a fierce, and underhanded stab in the back.

"I wasn't going to do it you know," I say quietly, knowing this is scarcely consolation if it passes for consolation at all, "I would have let you get away." Gemma's face is an advert for propriety, as she says between smiles, "Just walk please."

We've passed the worst of the streets, when Gemma suddenly stiffens, her hand a block of ice on mine.

"What is it?" I ask, alarmed, and she sputters, "It is Simon. I can't let him see."

Feeling strangely piqued, I retort, "Well we can't very well go this way then, can we!"

I tug at Gemma's arm and we are at a sidewalk, lined with a great queue of carriages and distinguished-looking, mustachioed coachmen. I go up to the closest one I see, and wrench the door open, hardly noticing the huffy woman who was about to board it as I take Gemma's trembling hand in mine and help her inside the carriage. The woman and her husband are outraged.

"If you please sir, this was our carriage!" The man harrumphs pretentiously, and I see Mr. Middleton and his son draw dangerously closer.

"I am very sorry, but the Duchess of Kent has a rather important meeting to attend to, and if it wouldn't be much trouble..." The pair refuse to be placated.

"Much trouble? We've gone to a bit of trouble trying to secure this cab, now please tell your mistress to leave at once," I wince at my little success, and to my dismay, Mr. Middleton approaches, a hatefully diplomatic expression stretched over the great lines of his face. "I say, what's going on here?"

The husband looks absurdly relieved at the fateful emergence of someone he deems to be of reason, and tips his hat to him.

"This Indian man has stolen our coach, and his mistress is inside, absolutely refusing to return to us,"

Simon Middleton stares at me with purpose.

"Father, isn't that the former coachmen of the Doyles?" It is only with a great deal of restraint, and my newly salvaged friendship with Gemma, that keeps me from bludgeoning the bastard altogether.

"Why yes, I do believe it is!" Mr. Middleton exclaims with a fair bit of surprise, and with a daring step closer, he addresses me with terse eyes.

"Now there, you best return the coach to this man and his wife, and secure one for yourself—" The rest of his sentence is a but a troubling noise in my ears as I see Fowlson and Miss McCleethy less than five feet away from me, exultant smiles on their dear faces. There was no time to lose.

With a resolve that was not my own, I jump off the coach and start moving wildly, dallying about the door of the coach like a madman. This elicits a great chorus of gasps, including a particularly loud one from Miss McCleethy, and quickly, as though my life depended on it, I slap the horse's hind.

My aim is true.

The horse lets out an ear-piercing whinny, and starts down the street in loud, stupendous gallops.

The constables have been summoned.

I smile.

Seizing a blade from my belt, I grab an unsuspecting Simon in a great whirl of arms, and he is caught under my unbreakable hold, the point of my blade almost meeting the skin of his neck. The constables stop short, white creeping to the eager flush of their faces. Simon tries to struggle, but the moment my blade grazes his neck, he goes absolutely still.

"Release my son this instant!" Mr. Middleton demands hysterically of me, anger betraying his voice as he eyes his son with a look that nearly splits my heart. _Nearly._

"As you wish dear sir!" I chirrup, and with an almighty push, I release Simon, running quickly before they've had a chance to stop me.

Over my shoulder, I see that Simon's body has sent the constables careening over backwards, creating a sort of domino effect with the rest of the crowd.

Somehow, I find a strange pleasure in this.


	7. Questions yet to be answered

**Final chapter to Heart Over Ambition.** It has truly been a pleasure writing for you all, and _I do so appreciate very much_ the wonderful, too kind reviews with which you showered and spoiled me with. I honestly did not think I would get this much. Thank you a thousand times over to those who always, with unfailing support, came back. I've also decided to follow **Maddycat2000's** suggestion of naming my chapters.

* * *

_"And allegiance to the Order...is that the only fealty you require of me?"_

_"Yes. That is all."_

* * *

"Young man, will you please sit still? The ceremony is about to begin, ye gods!"

A pudgy-looking man, stuffed in impressive coat and tails, barks at me impatiently through the polished glass of his spectacles.

"Please sir," I begin timidly, uncertain, "Where exactly are we?"

There are wrinkles above his puckered brow as he takes in my perplexed look.

"Where are we?" He gapes at me intently, as though only seeing me for the first time. "Only the most anticipated wedding since the Duchess of Louster's!" He explains in a manner so airy, I almost take him for a verbose, forty-year-old spinster. _"The Middleton-Doyle's!"_

"You don't say?" I rasp, feeling as though I should nearly faint from the shock.

Voices I was not aware of—some positively cooing over flower arrangements, a few commenting on the wonderful English weather, others positively moved, and weeping at the quartet's unearthly rendition of a love ballad—magnify ten fold. I feel that my ears should soon erupt from the madness, and I turn away, but not before witnessing the intense haze of colours that plummet before my eyes like a splendent shower.

Silver glints at every table; a delicate shade of purple at each pillar. Green spurts from the manicured lawns, winding itself about the reception's gorgeous wedding arch in an interlaced web of vines, answering the sky's soft whisper of robin's egg blue like a tickle.

A young couple dominates the spectacle, their arms lovingly locked together. It takes only but a minute for my eyes to take in Gemma…a Gemma I decidedly _do not know._

Her unruly tangles of warm red hair are swept back, artfully, on either side by a chignon of blue delphiniums and lavender freesias. A necklace of amethyst glints against the pale hollow of her neck, small, asian pearls adorning her ears. She is dressed in an expensive white satin, trimmed with a fair bit of lace. A veil of fleece falls over her lovely green eyes, which are both sparkling, and crying profusely with excitement.

Beside her, is none other than Simon Middleton, his abominable quiff of brown, foppy hair, expertly curled and pomaded. He is clad in tails a handsome shade of mauve.

The two appear to have eyes only for eachother.

A minister speaks softly between the two of them, and it is all I can do to sit in my seat, the sudden need to kick something hard strong against the skin of my throat.

_"Kartik!"_

I look up in surprise at the frightened voice.

_"Kartik!"_

It becomes louder, more alarmed, and I haven't the slightest idea of how to respond.

The voice seems to come at me in all directions—

* * *

_"Kartik!"_

Fingers come fast and stinging against the right side of my face.

I am up like a shot, eyes wide with a great alarm as I seek my cricket bat frantically in the near darkness and hold it aloft like a sabre.

It is Gemma, positively taken aback at my sudden display of belligerence. I lower the cricket bat to the ground, tucking it quickly beneath the dark of my cloak with an exasperated sigh.

"What is it, Miss Doyle?"

Gemma's eyes narrow to slits at my weary address, and she chances a brief glance over her stiffening shoulder, turning back to me with a most strained expression on her face.

"What are you doing here?" She asks coldly through positively gnashed teeth, and I reply with a forced smile, _"I sleep here."_

Gemma appears as though she might like to strike me again, but it is only her words that are vehement.

"You might wish to find yourself another cot then, Mr. Kartik," She mutters, thoroughly discomposed, "I just returned from the vespers, and it is only the fog that's concealing you from the eyes of the girls! You are far too close to the path to chance sleep! And I thought you were…"

"Thought I was what?" I prompt Gemma after an awkward, minute-long silence, and she flushes.

"I thought you were dead."

_And I thought you had married Simon Middleton. What interesting, if not amusing scenarios._

"Well then, I am very sorry to have frightened you," I say, suddenly glad for her concern. "You'd best go, your friends have surely missed you by now."

Gemma rises with me, and before I can turn to perhaps give her a 'See you soon,' She hands me something heavy. Emily's parting gift: A tidy, ornate copy of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.

"You forgot this," And as if just noticing the item, Gemma pulls it to her eyes, her face distorting curiously at the embossed title.

"Romeo and Juliet?" She sputters at me in genuine surprise, "I did not take you for a fan of romances."

A furious blush reaches the pale of my cheeks before I've the power to stop it.

"Oh…I am not. It is a gift from Emily…she suggested that if I were to visit London again, that she would read it to me…she also thought it would make a refreshing change from the 'The Odyssey'," My feet make small, uneven circles in the ground.

Gemma does not meet my uneasy eyes when she replies.

"I cannot say I do not agree with her. Good day, Kartik."

"Gemma—"

Gemma's eyes flash in warning, but I feel myself daring this evening, and do not care.

"Why do you not marry Simon Middleton?"

"You are much too forward," Gemma is waspish. It is rather obvious that she's been ask this a great many times, and to hear it from me, now and here, is beyond unforgivable.

"You've been evading the question for nearly a week," I press stubbornly,

"I don't recall you being party to my thoughts." She snaps, almost in disbelief at the cold ire that courses through her voice. I lower my gaze to the ground.

"I apologize. I merely wondered."

To my immense surprise, Gemma obliges me.

"There are things certain people in _certain positions_ must learn to deny themselves."

I cannot help but want to think that it is me she is addressing—the one that she must try to deny herself of. The act of doing so repulses me.

"Do you think dear, well-sheltered Simon Middleton will take me if he knew who I was?"

Simon's name comes like a slap to my face.

It is not because of me that she turned down the perfectly romantic, lovely, gentlemanly Simon Middleton.

It was shameless to hope, and I want to kick myself for it.

"Everyone has things they cannot have," I state simply, and the truth nearly splits my heart with all its force.

Gemma seems to agree with me in silence, and we stand there, the cool dampening the little resolve in our spirits.

"I'd best go," Gemma says to me when it has begun to be unbearably cold, and I give her a quick nod, smiling a little as she makes her way hurriedly down the church path—only to be swallowed whole by the interminable grey of the fog.

Once I've a moment to gather my belongings, I begin quickly treading past the many scatterings of trees, the little light given by the moon caught easily by the interlaced branches that hang, swaying against the beat of the wind, above me.

It is soon nightfall, and I grope desperately for the sweet support of a nearby tree. I settle comfortably against its great gnarled roots, my tall, dark frame sagging in relief.

Dead husks of leaves swirl in quaint circles about my feet, seeming to tempt me into a lively dance. A gust carries them away from me, to an undecided future I know nothing about. The rush of the air stings my eyes.

_There are things certain people in certain positions must learn to deny myself._

Gemma's words gather to form an endless loop within me, and I break.

The path that lies before me is so unclear, so uncertain…that the delicious comfort of all things unquestionable, and true binds me completely to this earth. And what I feel for Gemma is unquestionable…_true._

But our case is an impossible one.

She will marry someone like Simon Middleton, who will provide her a most gratifying life of happiness and stability, and I shall be left, existing only to wonder all that could have been.

The feelings that stopped me from pursuing my place in the Rakshanna, are feelings that will never be returned. _Only teased, and tantalized._

A shadow of our kiss on Christmas day still lingers like an etching over my chest...

And I know it will be like the grief of a wound I will have to bear all my life.


End file.
